


A Nettling Predicament

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Bondage, Desk Sex, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Identity Issues, M/M, Madeleine Era, Nettle Flogging, Punishment, Suffering Valjean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a walk, Valjean finds himself stuck in a crumbling wall. Then a stranger appears. He cannot see the man, but he can soon feel what the man has in mind for him.<br/>The next day, Javert decides that this situation needs a very careful investigation... Best done on the mayor's desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=14159816

How had he ended up in this situation? Valjean could not say. The hole in the small, crumbling wall had looked wide enough to allow a man to force himself through here. The wall was just high enough that climbing it would certainly have torn his clothes, and Valjean did not want to return to Montreuil with his coat dirtied and ripped. He thought he had seen a strange flash of color on the other side of the wall, a scrap of brightly colored fabric that made him think of a small doll lost by a child -- but now, he could no longer see it, held in place as he was by the crumbling stone of the wall.

The hole must have looked wider than it was, or maybe he had loosened a stone by accident. Now he was stuck, could move neither back nor forward, and his hands pushed without effect against the stone that seemed to have tightened like a vise around him.

It was an embarrassing predicament for the mayor of Montreuil to find himself stuck in such a way. He was not too far from the path that led through the forest here; he thought that with luck, someone might pass eventually and see him. Perhaps, if he called out, sooner or later someone would follow his voice -- but how embarrassing to be found like this, with only his lower body visible from the other side of the wall as he knelt amidst the crumbling stones and nettles!

He reached back again to press against the stone, pushing with all his strength -- and then pulled his hand back with a hiss, for he had come into contact with one of the stingy leaves. 

His head fell forward in surrender. He panted quietly, ignoring the itch of his hand. Everything was quiet but for the sound of the wind in the leaves, and distant birds. He wondered again if he should call out -- but how shameful to be found like this! No, certainly he would be able to free himself. All he needed to do was to dislodge a stone or two.

Again he hesitated, and then, he heard what he had been dreading and hoping for all along. There was the sound of footsteps somewhere behind him, on the other side of the small wall. Again he tried to twist and turn, but it was useless; he was stuck, and the wall was high enough that he could not see.

“Help!” he called out at last, mortified at the thought of being seen like this: his legs and bottom struggling from a hole, stuck in this undignified position more suited to a careless child instead of Montreuil's admired mayor. But to wait, to be stuck in this place for hours, maybe through the night -- that was worse! Imagine them sending out a group of people to search for him. Imagine that fearsome inspector new to Montreuil arriving tomorrow to find him like this, miserable and humiliated!

The footsteps came closer; then they stopped. 

He shivered all of a sudden. Whoever had arrived did not speak. Would not someone who found a person in such a predicament offer his help, or ask whether he was well? A cold shudder ran through Valjean as he wondered whether it was a thief. What if a wandering pick-pocket passed through the town; or worse, a cut-throat! The clothes he had put on for his solitary walk through the forest were comfortably worn; certainly he did not look like a wealthy person. At the same time, he would also not look like the mayor of nearby Montreuil to a stranger, or like a respectable person deserving of help...

He swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He thought he should speak, should beg for help, but he could not force out a word when there was nothing but silence. It was different now. The knowledge that someone was standing behind him turned the silence threatening. His mind conjured all sorts of fearsome images as he waited. Still no word was spoken, but now he thought he heard the sound of heavy breathing. 

For long, long moments, nothing happened. His heart shuddered in his chest. He strained to listen. Perhaps the wind had tricked him; perhaps those had not been footsteps he had heard after all. Perhaps the sound of breathing was his own!

Suddenly, there was a touch, and he trembled violently. A whimper escaped him when hands began to open his trousers.

He was being rescued, his mind supplied fearfully, that was what was happening. The man who had arrived had seen that without the fabric on him, he would be able to make his way out of this hole...

Valjean moved a little with sudden relief, then stilled with a surprised gasp of pain when he brushed against another nettle. The sting of it made him whimper as much as the surprise.

At the sound, the man breathed in quickly, and then Valjean could feel something cold and smooth against his skin. Boots, he thought, feeling dizzy with what he told himself was relief at his rescue. That had to be polished leather, smooth and cold, and -- his thoughts scattered. The boots pressed against his thighs. His skin was bare; the man had pulled off his trousers -- to free him, he thought again, ignoring the panic that made something within him clench with fear, to free him, yes, and now the man would seek to pull him free--

The man did not move. For a long moment, he stood between his legs, boots pressed to his skin. Then, the pressure increased, and Valjean bit back another sound of instinctive fear as the man forced his knees apart. His fingers scrambled at the ground, but there was nothing but dirt and weeds beneath his fingernails, and his thighs were still forced to spread, until he lowered his head in helpless surrender when he realized that there was nothing he could do to keep this from happening. He shivered with dread and the strange, fearful tension that ran through him at the realization of how exposed he was. Cold air brushed against his balls, his exposed anus. He imagined a stranger's eyes looking at him like that, inspecting that shameful, intimate part of his body, lingering on the shape of his balls, lingering on--

A pulse of heat ran through his cock at the thought, despite the terror of being caught like this. No one had ever touched him. No one had ever stripped him like this, exposed his genitals while he was helpless, while he could not even see who it was who had spread his thighs and revealed his hole and vulnerable balls to the cold air – and to any touch, any indignity the stranger might choose to visit upon him.

Another whimper escaped. His blood pulsed hotly in his cock at the terrifying thought and he pressed his cheek to the cool earth. 

What _would_ the man do? Why hadn't he--

Even the thought of being touched like this was nearly unbearable. His pulse throbbed, his heartbeat echoed in his ears, and shame and dread curled in his stomach with a terrible, terrible heat as he panted, and waited, breathing in the scent of crushed grass and damp earth, and shuddering at the coolness of the air against his exposed hole. He flushed with humiliation again as he imagined the man standing there, holding him spread open and vulnerable. What was he thinking? What did he see? What would he do -- certainly he was going to touch, _oh God_ , almost he prayed for it just so that the terrible wait would have an end and he could stop dreading what was to come.

No one had ever dared to do this to him in Toulon. He had been too strong, too terrifying to the other convicts, even though all he had desired was to hide in sullen solitude. But he had seen others kneeling as he did now, exposed and spread open for the pleasure of another: some willingly, some forced. He had never even though about it happening to him. Who would have dared to, with his strength? 

But now he was helpless. Now he was vulnerable.

It sent a hot rush of shame down his spine, and he made another soft sound and tried to shift. His shame increased at how heavy his prick already felt, and how the man would be able to see it sway between his legs.

At that, at last, the man moved. Valjean could not see what he was doing, but the pressure that held his knees spread wide was gone -- and then there were sounds: a slight crunch, a tearing sound, almost as if the man were pulling weeds out of the ground.

Valjean shuddered and tensed, sliding his legs close again in shame to shield himself from the stranger's eyes. A moment later, the man's boots were back in place, pushing against his thighs with unmistakable command, and Valjean tried to fight, and then relaxed with a pitiful, soft sound of surrender as his position allowed the man to push his knees wide apart again without any effort.

Again there was silence, then the man seemed to step away. He was no longer standing so close as to spread his thighs open with his boots -- but he was still there, and Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the pulse that throbbed at his brow throb also there between his legs, where the eyes of the stranger were now certainly resting, leaving him with a strange, shameful warmth.

There was no warning. There was the slightest sound, and then, a stinging impact that made him yelp and try to press his knees together by instinct to protect himself. 

The man would have none of that. There was the pressure of a smooth boot again, forcing his knees to slide apart, baring his most intimate, tender places to that stranger's cruelty, and he panted helplessly as the vulnerable skin of his inner thigh burned with a strange heat. It had been mostly the surprise, he thought with relief when after a moment, the burn faded to something warm and bearable -- and then the tingling started, and the warmth intensified, and there was another swishing sound and the inside of his other thigh was dealt a similar blow. He bit back another sob, tried to shift -- but there was the boot again, and he surrendered at last, kept his legs spread wide for that cruel tormentor even as the tingling grew worse. Again and again he was flogged by what the man held in his hand. Nettles, Valjean thought, tears threatening to spill from his eyes at last from the way his thighs burned, he was being flogged with nettles -- but why, why would anyone do this to him!

There was another pause. All he could hear was the man’s heavy breathing, and his own tear-choked sobs. Who would do this to him? Maybe someone had recognized him. Maybe some poor farmer had thought to have a jest with the mayor. Yes, he thought, biting back another sound of pure misery, he'd had his bottom thrashed with the nettles, later the farmer would have a quiet laugh about how he had dealt with a bourgeois like one would deal with a disobedient child, and neither of them would ever talk about it.

Nothing warned him. The earlier beating had served to rid the nettles of their leaves, he now realized helplessly, but the stems, the stems were tough, resilient, covered with the same tiny stinging thorns as the leaves -- and it was these stems the man now held in his hands, and brought done hard on his unprotected balls. A cry escaped Valjean. He surged forward -- but still he could not move, still he was stuck, and he trembled heavily as tears began to flow freely from his eyes at last at the pain. It felt like a line of fire drawn over the pouch that held his aching balls, and now it throbbed with the burn, and he pressed his thighs together again with a whimper, trying to protect himself.

Again, the man would have none of it. Again, those terrible boots forced his thighs apart, forced him to spread his legs wider, and wider, until his balls hung heavy and vulnerable beneath him, burning with pain and the fire of the nettle's bite, and he could feel cool air against his exposed hole once more. This time, a nettle stem was run down the crease between his buttocks, very, very slowly, so that he whimpered again and shuddered violently when it circled the thin, sensitive skin of his hole, spreading fire there as well. It rubbed against him for a long moment, and his hole twitched, and his cock throbbed. It was a warning, he realized, and then dropped his head to the ground once more with another sob of misery, keeping his legs spread wide even when the man stepped back again.

At least this time, he had been warned. He knew what to expect -- and yet, it drew another whimper from him. The impact of the stems was heavy enough to make his balls ache with hot, fierce pain, and even though it faded after a few moments to something that seemed almost bearable, now the stinging thorns of the nettle worked their evil, and heat spread.

He shuddered and shifted helplessly, although he had learned his lesson well enough to keep his legs spread wide. The heat that enveloped him seemed almost pleasant -- and then the stems came down again, flogging his balls with merciless force, and another sob spilled from his mouth along with his tears as he shuddered and trembled. Again and again the nettles stung him, until at last it felt as if his balls had swelled to twice their size, as if the pouch holding them swayed between his legs heavy and hot, a swollen knot of burning pain that shot up his spine and into his aching cock with every impact of the nettle stems. Worse than the pain was the instinct to squeeze his thighs together, to pathetically try and protect his vulnerable genitals from the stranger's cruel hands -- but all too well he still remembered that mockingly gentle touch of the nettles being drawn down his skin until it circled and circled his tender, exposed hole, and he did not dare to disobey now, not with that threat of worse things hanging over him. What choice was there but to try and bear this cruel game?

Again the stems came down, struck his heavy balls with a sound that made him sobs out loud even before the pain spread hot and terrible once more a heartbeat later. His face was wet with tears; his fingers still scrabbled helplessly at the earth, clenching around grass and weeds in impotent despair. 

He had never been as helpless as this. Even in Toulon, which had been nothing but bleak misery, he had never known such burning, shameful pain. He was utterly helpless, without even that one constant of his body's strength to protect him from harm. He could not move, he could not even see; he knew himself so utterly at the stranger's mercy that he did not even dare to try and protect himself, because to act against this man's silent commands would certainly only bring him more humiliation.

Again the nettles fell; again there was the burning pain, the sting, the line of fire that throbbed and ached and made his scrotum swell more until it felt like his balls were embers burning tender and hot within. As he sobbed in overwhelmed despair, the nettles came down again; the heavy impact of the stinging stems made his balls sway, and his cock brushed his stomach, so achingly hard despite the tormenting blows that he choked on his tears for a moment in terrified shame.

He would have pleaded for an end, if he had been able to speak. If this was someone who had envied the mayor's rise to prosperity, then he had certainly had his revenge now! What else could one want than to see an enemy as utterly humbled and shamed as he was? 

Again he thought of how he must look, the way he was still exposing himself so vulgarly. By now, his thighs ached from the sprain of spreading his legs so wide, but he dared not move, not after he had been shown what the man might choose to do to him for misbehavior. He thought of the man's eyes on his balls, which felt bruised and tender, swollen to twice their size, and as he imagined the stranger's hand touching them, cradling them -- squeezing them even, anything to escape this unbearable heat! -- his cock jerked against his stomach again, and then the nettles came down once more. Two quick, harsh strokes, right across his twitching hole, and this time a hoarse, wordless cry of pain and utter misery escaped him. When the man ceased, after that, all he could hear was the sound of his own whimpers, and the stranger’s heavy breathing. 

His entire body ached. His hole burned. He imagined how it had to look, obscene and red from the nettle's sting, with two hot, swollen lines burned right across it, imagined the man's eyes lingering there, imagined again the touch of a hand. His balls ached so much, felt like they were burning up, so terribly tender and swollen, that he thought he would do anything, anything at all, to have that terrible ache eased, anything at all to have cool fingers press against them and soothe the sting.

“Please,” he finally begged, more tears running down his cheeks as he kept his legs spread wide, well-aware of how he had to look. “Please, oh please, anything...”

There was a sound at last. A small, choked groan heavy with some emotion. Lust, perhaps, Valjean thought, still trembling helplessly, waiting for the touch that would certainly come now, the hand that would calm and soothe his swollen balls, maybe – oh God, yes, the prick that would thrust into his aching hole, spreading and invading him without thought for his comfort, to rut with him as though that was all he was, a warm hole for the stranger to take his pleasure in instead of the beloved mayor of Montreuil. 

The nettles' sting burned so badly now that the mere thought of how much it would ache to be spread open and filled by the stranger's prick made his hole twitch again with pained need. Surely that ache would ease the burning sting of the nettles; oh God, how much he desired the stranger's warm come to fill him, to trickle out of his stretched hole at last and drip down to soothe his swollen, tender balls...

“Please.” His voice was rough from the tears that ran down his face. To think of those long years he had not wept – and now this cruel man had forced all the tears from him, when even the lash in Toulon had not managed that. Toulon had been nothing but torment and hate – but this, this agony was quite different. Even in Toulon, he had never been as helpless as this. Even in Toulon, he had never hurt so much. The burn was so unbearable, he was so sensitive that he thought he would do anything at all – and oh God, what if the man left him like this. What if someone else found him like this. What if the man would return with a friend...

A high, embarrassing whine escaped him. “Oh, please,” he begged again, dizzy with shame at how lewd he sounded. Was that truly his voice that made these lust-filled sounds? But the throb between his legs was unbearable, so that he thought he would faint if he was left like this. Every breath was agony, and he strained against that ache, arched his back and spread his legs impossibly wider, exposing his aching hole in vulgar invitation for the stranger's pleasure.

Another groan, a ragged, desperate sound. Again, a nettle trailed up his thigh to linger against the small, swollen muscle, trembling slightly while Valjean sobbed yet did not move. He was terrified, he was hurting, he was so aroused that he thought he could not bear it anymore – and then there was the rustling of weeds. He tensed. Now, he thought, now...

The sound of footsteps. Footsteps – leading away from him this time.

Valjean sobbed hoarsely when he realized that he had been abandoned like this. He was still filled with burning, shameful arousal, and still so hard that he would do anything at all: not to be freed, but simply to be touched! He could not even touch himself like this, even though his lower body was on fire with the stinging, throbbing bite of the nettles. All he could think of as he squirmed in pain was the man's return. His cock throbbed hotly against his stomach at the thought. Valjean shivered and spread his legs again for what little ease the cool air brought to his inflamed skin. He'd let the stranger do whatever he desired with him. He moaned at the thought of a finger touching where the nettle had circled so mockingly. Yes, anything at all, as long as he would not be left like this, burning with fire and unable to touch himself or seek any kind of relief!

For another hour, he struggled weakly. Every now and then, he would slump and sob with hoarse, pained sounds when the shame and the pain became too much to bear. At last, he managed to struggle free somehow. Maybe his long, painful struggle had dislodged whatever stones had entrapped him; he did not even turn to see what it was that had closed around him so precariously as he finally struggled out of the hole. His thighs and buttocks hurt, and every movement made his balls swing heavy and bruised within the swollen pouch between his legs. He cupped himself, then sobbed again, both with gratitude at the slight relief his cool fingers brought, as well as from the agony even the lightest touch meant.

Everything was heat and burning pain. Worse was the humiliation: his cock was dripping clear fluid; the crown flushed and dark and shiny wet, and he thought of that man’s eyes on him, and of how long he had willingly exposed himself to him. He covered his face with his hands as he imagined it, cold eyes taking in every detail as he began to harden from the shameful exposure alone, and then, furthering his shame, his prick filling to this unbearable hardness at the merciless punishment the man had meted out!

The man had seen everything. He had heard him plead and sob, and seen him arch his back and spread his legs, and Valjean had not even seen him, had never even heard his voice. He shuddered as he thought about it. It could have been anyone. Anyone at all. Anyone whom he passed in the streets every day: Joubert the shepherd; the miller's boy; one of the drunk sailors from the docks; an officer of Montreuil's small police...

He bit his lips to hold back a moan of despair as new heat rushed through him along with terrible shame. How would he ever be able to walk through the streets of Montreuil again; how could he now nod and greet those whom he met on his walks? Anyone, any one at all could have watched him expose his hole, could have beaten his balls until they were tender and aching worse than any ache he had ever felt and he had known himself utterly helpless and shamed...

But he could not remain here either. He had to return. He had to pretend to be Madeleine once more, while any of those men who returned his smiles might be that heavy-handed stranger.

Pulling his trousers on was agony. Worse was to walk, to feel the swollen, tender sack between his legs rub against the rough wool with every step he took. 

Making his way back to his house was almost worse torment than enduring the man's cruel beating had been. By the time he closed his door behind him, he was pale, and covered in sweat. Every step sent a pulse of red-hot pain through his body as the swollen pouch that held his balls was agonizingly squeezed against the rough fabric; every step rubbed the wet, sensitive head of his prick against the scratchy wool already damp with the fluid his erect prick kept leaking. 

He slumped against the door. He opened his trousers. New tears ran from his eyes as he bit back a rough sob of utter humiliation, and then he took himself in hand, and tugged hard on his swollen prick. Even then, the image that lingered on his mind was still the thought of the stranger's prick spreading his aching, nettle-stung hole. And when he found release, the pain that throbbed like fire through his tender balls was so overwhelming that his legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees with a soft cry, strings of his spend landing all over his chest and face as he nearly fainted from the intensity of both agony and pleasure.

\-----

Valjean tried not to shift. Javert was reporting on an accident – some sort of mishap, something concerning the factory, he thought dizzily – but he could not concentrate on the man's words. All he could feel was the red-hot throb of agony between his legs, where his balls still rested tender and swollen, squeezed between his thighs and the soft wool of the most comfortable pair of trousers he owned. Would Javert never finish, he wondered in despair. Again he suppressed the urge to shift on the unyielding wood of his simple chair; again he had to suppress a breathless moan of exquisite pain.

“But Monsieur,” Javert said after what had been a long pause, Valjean realized at last with mortification. “You have gone pale. I assure you, no great harm was done, but you are right. This requires your immediate attention. Come, I will lead you to the place of the accident myself. It is not far, and I know Monsieur le Maire will want to make certain that the man is well.”

Valjean paled even more. His mouth opened, but he found he did not know what to say. An accident; Javert had talked of an accident. Had someone been hurt? There was a man – oh, how could he refuse to see if all was well when there was the possibility that someone had come to harm. And yet, to rise! Worse, to walk by Javert's side, to match his long stride and pretend that his sensitive balls were not squeezed and rubbed and undergoing a torment almost as terrible as the pain of having them beaten so mercilessly!

He rose very slowly. Almost this was enough to make him whimper again – and how pathetic would that be, to shed tears with Javert's cold, suspicious gaze on him! Worse, what if Javert knew!

Valjean faltered, his eyes dropping to the floor, where Javert's boots of dark, black leather stood polished and spotless – would those not have felt impossibly smooth, impossibly strong against his thighs? Would not--

But no, he told himself hastily, no, Javert would never! No, that was unthinkable. Not the correct inspector. The man would flog him himself if his past were ever revealed – but Javert would not lay hands on a man he found in the woods, helpless and vulnerable. He would never do that to a magistrate especially, even if he had watched him from cold, suspicious eyes ever since he had arrived in Montreuil.

He clenched his teeth to hold back another whimper as he slowly began to follow Javert, who walked strangely slow today as well. Cold sweat ran down Valjean's back, while at the same time, the abused pouch between his legs throbbed with maddening, agonizing need.

Javert did not speak, but by the time they had made it down the stairs, Valjean's face was flushed, and his balls throbbed with an ache he had never felt before, so unbearably tender that almost, even Javert's presence was not enough to keep him from thrusting a hand into his trousers to cup himself in helpless, pained need. 

Javert's eyes came to linger on his coat. Valjean's cheeks flushed a darker color with shame. Certainly he had to know; certainly Javert must be able to see... He did not dare to look down at himself. No, no, the coat was good, heavy wool, certainly it would hide all evidence of the vulgarity of his body's display! For not only were his balls still aching with fierce heat, but somehow, he had hardened at the obscene pain, had uncurled to press and chafe against the wool that was damp once more with the fluid that kept leaking from him with every tormented step he took.

He took another step, and so did Javert. He was flushed; he was too hot; he thought he would faint, or spill himself right here in his trousers, in front of Javert. Everything was moving around him. He was dizzy from the heat in his blood. Something was strangely familiar about the sound Javert's boots made on the wooden floor. Again his eyes came to rest on them; again he thought of how shamefully exposed he had been, how he had arched and begged in the end. He had to force his eyes away from those boots, shuddering, his cock pulsing with terrible need as it chafed against the damp wool until it felt like the tender flesh was just as swollen and abraded as his balls. 

“There,” Javert murmured when they had made it outside at last. Several crates had turned over and spilled. A horse with a mulish look on its face stood in the street, refusing to move despite the workers that had gathered around it. Next to the cart – one wheel had broken off, Valjean realized dizzily, that must have been what Javert had been talking about earlier – the owner stood, his face red as he gestured at the crates.

Javert bent and idly picked up what must have been the cart-driver's whip. He twisted and turned it in his hands for a long moment, then lightly flicked it against his boots, as if to test the sturdiness of it.

At the sound, every muscle in Valjean's body tensed, and a high, desperate whine escaped his clenched teeth. The hot, wet rush of his spend was a shock; he trembled through his release that had come upon him with the force and the speed of lightning at the sound and the memory it woke. He could not breathe for a moment, his cheeks burning with heat when he realized that he had spilled himself in his trousers right here in the square, in front of everyone. 

The echo of his heartbeat was loud as thunder in his ears. When it passed, when he trembled, and the sweat on his brow turned cold from shame and dread, and he dared to look up at last, he found that the men were still gathered around the collapsed cart. 

Only Javert watched him, his expression deceptively mild. But when he reached out to take Valjean's arm, murmured, “Here, M. Madeleine, you look flushed; it is getting colder, a chill must have taken you,” he lightly slapped the whip against his boot again. 

“Yes, look how warm your skin is, Monsieur.” Javert's breath ghosted against his ear. Again Valjean clenched his teeth to hold back a sound of remembered agony. “Perhaps I should go for the doctor. Or perhaps you will allow me to lead you back inside, and let me have a look at you. You might be running a fever, Monsieur.” 

This time, Valjean knew that he felt the shudder that ran through his body.


	2. Javert's Investigation

If descending the stairs had been agony, slowly making his way back up the stairs with Javert by his side was a torment devised by a devil. There was no hiding his pain now, not when it hurt to move, his tender, bruised balls still sore and aching with every step, despite the painful release he had achieved. Javert's arm had come around his waist, ostensibly to support him, when what it truly did was enable Javert to feel every shiver and sound of pain caught in his chest at every step, and the heat that filled his body so that Javert had thought him fevered.

“Slowly, Monsieur,” Javert said, but there was nothing gallant about this man. How was it that even the so dearly needed support he provided felt devious, and made Valjean shudder and want to cringe away? Again he listened to the sounds Javert's boots made on the wooden floor, again sweat beaded at his brow, ran down cold his back as he thought of how utterly exposed and shameless he had been.

He did not have the breath to reply, not when he had to force himself to clench his teeth to trap the helpless whimpers and sobs the pain even now aroused. His prick was no longer hard, and every step reminded him of that as well with the disgusting sensation of wet wool clinging to his limp cock. All he could feel was the soreness of his balls, and he imagined them still swollen and heavy in the sack that was a tender, sensitive red from the cruel abuse he had been forced to bear.

Once they had stepped into his office and Javert had closed the door, he was led firmly towards the window. Valjean could not protest; he thought that if he tried to speak now only a whimper would come out. It was all he could do to follow along so he would not give away the state he was in. If he could only play along a few more minutes, then certainly Javert would leave, and he could wipe himself clean, try to ease the ache of his balls with a cool, wet cloth, and then excuse himself and hide in a storage room, stretch out on a plank somewhere, until he could bear the thought of walking back to his house.

“There, it is just as I thought; you are flushed, you are covered in sweat! Monsieur, it seems to me you are very unwell!”

Valjean shivered in the sunlight, once more the recipient of Javert's cold, suspicious stare.

He tried to come up with an excuse, but when he finally parted his lips to send the man away, the words came out so softly, with so much suppressed agony, that Javert had looked at him with renewed suspicion – or perhaps, on the countenance of that man, such a thing counted as concern. It made Valjean shiver again, and all the while his balls throbbed with relentless pain, and he could not help but fear that Javert had to know what had happened mere minutes ago when he had found a sudden, shameful release there in front of everyone, from no stimulation but the sound of the whip.

The mere memory made him feel faint, the thud when the whip had hit Javert's boot, and he shivered again, unable to stop imagining how that whip would have felt like: that whip instead of the nettles decorating his thighs with painful stripes, that whip raising burning welts right across his hole until he would raise his arse up higher and plead for the man to use his hole instead...

He wanted to wipe his brow, where more sweat had gathered; instead he found himself swaying, dangerously leaning into Javert who frowned and tried to steady him. In the process, Valjean made a wrong move that squeezed his aching testicles against his thigh, so that hot tears of agony welled up in his eyes and a soft cry of pain escaped him.

“Monsieur!” Javert's exclamation sounded almost concerned, and Valjean suddenly found himself in too much pain to remember that there were reasons to distrust Javert, reasons to seek out solitude rather than accept comfort when it was offered.

Pain spread from between his legs as Javert helped him stand, and Valjean wanted to weep in humiliation as he stood with his legs slightly spread, every breath a sound of pain.

“Monsieur, are you well? That is no fever. You are hurt! You are hurt, yes, Monsieur, and I know you were well before you went on your walk yesterday. Was it one of those poachers who caused such trouble for the old miller the other week?”

Valjean clenched his teeth, choosing to remain silent now, for to speak would certainly mean more tears – but then Javert came even closer, rested a hand on his shoulder in support, bent so close that he could feel his breath against his neck, and fear ran through Valjean like fire.

What if Javert knew? What if Javert knew – not what had happened yesterday, but that there was no Madeleine, that there was only Jean Valjean; that he had been lied to, and the Mayor he so begrudgingly respected was in truth a convict who had broken parole?

It was that fear that made him speak now, slowly, haltingly, still aching with terrible pain, but desperate to lead Javert away from that trail, even if that meant that he would have to fabricate a new trail for him.

“I do not know if it was your poachers. I am certain it was only one man, but I had the misfortune of encountering a criminal in the forest yesterday. I am not hurt, Javert, just exhausted. A little sore.” 

Javert frowned, and Valjean shivered again. Had Javert's eyes dropped towards his groin? Certainly that could not be the case. 

“You see, he sought to entrap me, maybe to rob me that way, but I proved too strong, and at last he ran off. I did not get a good look at him. But perhaps you will find another who encountered the man. He worse boots. Leather boots. That is all I remember.”

Javert's breath was still uncomfortably hot against his skin. Valjean looked down again in misery, so sore and exhausted and humiliated that all he prayed for was for Javert to swallow the bait and walk off to search out those non-existent witnesses. Once again, luck was not on his side.

Javert reached out, and Valjean froze with sudden shock to find the man press the back of his hand to his sweat-damp brow. Javert frowned again, and Valjean found that he could not move, could not breathe as sudden fear clenched around his chest.

“Your skin is very warm, Monsieur,” Javert said softly, his brows drawn together as he studied Valjean. “A fever? Caused by an injury? You are not well, you can barely walk. You were attacked! No, Monsieur, it is no use to deny it, that much is apparent. Come now, will you even defend some ruffian that attacked you? You can plead for compassion once we have found the man; for now, Monsieur le Maire, I must insist. The mayor's well-being is of the utmost importance to the town; any attack on you is a great outrage! Since you will not allow me to call for the doctor, I need to make certain that you are not in any danger, Monsieur. Come now, I will be quick. You can report to me what happened meanwhile, if you please.”

Valjean shivered. Another drop of cold sweat ran down his back. Had he refused to have the doctor called? He could not remember. But it was difficult to think when crowded so by Javert. Then Javert's hand opened the buttons of his coat, slid it from his shoulders with the utmost care and respect. Valjean shivered and only realized his predicament when the air made his soaked trousers cling cold and miserable to his spent prick, and he lowered his face and tried to turn his body away from Javert, leaning against the desk more heavily.

“Your report on the injury you sustained, Monsieur?”

Javert's hands rested against his shoulders, large and warm, and threatening enough that Valjean began to speak despite himself, hoping for anything to break the silence and to distract Javert from the mess he had made of his trousers. 

“Nothing happened, Javert, truly. There is no need for this. The town would be better served were you to go out and search the forest before those poachers can get away...”

“No, Monsieur. “ Javert's voice was very determined, and Valjean shivered again when Javert moved even closer – close enough that he could feel the press of a leather boot against his leg.

The sensation made him fall silent and freeze, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Certainly not, he thought, no, no, it was impossible, not Javert!

Javert, meanwhile, had leaned forward, his hands still resting on Valjean's shoulder, his breath now teasing along his ear. “Monsieur, a man of your strength overwhelmed and suffering injury... It is unimaginable! I have only known one man to rival your strength, Monsieur le Maire. He was a convict in the galleys of Toulon. A dangerous man. He vanished while on parole. Do you know what this means?”

Valjean looked down at his desk. Scattered letters still rested there; he could not make out what they said. He trembled, shivering with helpless fear at the way Javert entrapped him with his breath and his large hands and the touch of his boots against his leg, and he could not move, for certainly that would only invite more of the man's suspicion.

“This means that if that man managed to overpower you, Monsieur, he must be very strong indeed, and very dangerous. I think our poacher might be that man. That Jean Valjean.”

A choked groan escaped Valjean at the sound of that name from Javert's lips. At the same time, Javert had reached out and begun to unbutton his waistcoat, and only when Javert had finished and begun to pull it off did Valjean realize what he was doing.

“Javert!” he said in shocked protest, but then Javert's hands came to rest against his shirt. They were very large, and warm enough that he could feel his heat through the shirt. He choked again; Javert used the moment to begin to open his buttons.

“It is imperative we retrieve that convict and see him returned to Toulon,” Javert said. His hand was halfway down his chest now. Valjean looked down at himself and trembled to see the sliver of chest, the hair gaping up through the open shirt. 

“No, Monsieur. I know you are a modest man, a religious man, but you must see that God cannot save such a man. This man belongs in the galleys, so that men like you can keep going about handing out alms even to the undeserving. And to ensure such a thing is my duty. No; you must realize that this time, you must let me do my duty. It is not only for your protection, Monsieur le Maire, but for the good of all of Montreuil.”

Valjean swallowed thickly as one of Javert's fingers brushed his skin by accident. Then another shudder ran through him as he thought of what Javert would find on his back if he allowed the inspector to divest him of his shirt. The lash-marks were old; he could not blame them on his attacker.

“Javert!” he said, shivered again at how fearful he sounded, how guilty. Must not Javert know? But no, he told himself, no, trembling so hard he had to hold himself up with his hands against the desk. No, Javert thought his attacker was Jean Valjean, and that he was Madeleine.

Javert ceased for a short moment, and Valjean used his chance.

“Please, not the shirt. I am very cold. I think you are right and I might have caught a chill. If you want that man's marks, he could not strike me there. I was stuck, you see, he could never reach that part of my body, and that is why I could not see him!”

“Stuck, you say, M. le Maire?” Was that amusement in Javert's voice? No, Valjean hastened to reassure himself. No; and Javert's hands had ceased stripping off his shirt. There. All he need do was distract the man; and what better way to lie than to conceal it in the truth? Better to hand the man his dignity than his freedom.

“Stuck,” he said with what dignity he could muster, which was not very much at all when he was still hurting, and half bent over his desk with Javert's legs pressed against his own.

“Stuck in a wall; stones here, around my waist, you see – that is how that convict found me. You are right, it must have been your convict. He found me, and he drew off my trousers, he must have gone through my pockets to see if I carried anything of worth with me!”

“Did he?” Javert asked slowly. “And did you carry anything with you which that man took?”

“I gave the sous in my pockets to a group of children earlier – I was walking with less than a beggar in my pockets, Javert. He cannot have found anything, save maybe for a bit of string. That – ah, that must have enraged him!”

“And so he threatened you and asked for your coin?”

Valjean shivered. Once more, he could feel droplets of sweat run down his nape. The sensation reminded him that all that stood between him and the unremitting, iron cruelty of Javert was the thin layer of his shirt. And beneath, there waited the scars that injustice had drawn onto his skin to mark him with permanence as all that which Javert had listed: a dangerous man. A convict. A man to avoid, a man for the law to watch out for, a man who might...

He shuddered and held very still when Javert's hands slid down his back, frozen with fear like an animal that had come face to face with the hunter at last.

“He beat me,” he offered when the silence became unbearable. He continued to stare at the papers beneath him, and all he saw instead were the shackles that might soon be fastened once more around his wrists. “Perhaps to threaten; I am certain you are right, Javert. But something scared him away, and all I gained were a few bruises, and he gained nothing.”

“Bruises.” Javert's hands rested at his hips now, heavy and large. Valjean trembled and tried in vain to gather that air of quiet authority that before had always served so well to keep this man away from him.

“Javert,” he began, but then Javert moved, and as if by accident, his knee lightly brushed Valjean's thigh.

Valjean could not suppress the pained gasp that escaped when the fabric of his trousers chafed against his skin. The nettle-stung skin was still so sensitive that even such a light touch felt like a slap, and at the sound he made, Javert froze for a heartbeat. Then, before he could think to protest, Javert's hands were at his trousers.

Ah, good God! Javert was stripping him! Javert was pulling down his trousers – Javert would reveal him in all his shame, and Valjean gasped again and turned, uncaring now in his panic whether Javert would see the tears that still threatened to fall at the pain. 

Javert was close, too close! Valjean was still very sore, and aching all over. And now, he was more afraid than he had been in a long time, even here, safe in this small room from which he had brought prosperity to Montreuil. Here, he wielded power – but that power had been swept away like a sand castle carried away by the tide as he felt his trousers drop down, and he looked at Javert as even greater heat rose to his cheeks, imagined Javert lifting his shirttails to look– 

He bit back a choked sound. No, no, anything but that – but what was his choice? To have Javert return once more to the topic of the escaped convict, about his unusual strength equal only to that of the mayor?

Lost in these terrible thoughts, once more he hesitated a heartbeat too long, and Javert used his chance.

“Where did he beat you, Monsieur? How?” Javert asked, in the curt, clipped sentences he would use to question a suspect. His hand reached out, maybe indeed to lift his shirttails, but it brushed lightly against his thigh, and once more, Valjean groaned in pain.

This time, the response was immediate. This time, Valjean found one large hand coming to rest against the small of his back, lightly pushing him forward so that he had to hold himself up with his hands against the desk, Javert's other hand pushing his shirt out of the way.

Javert exhaled heavily. Valjean trembled, wondered what Javert saw, sick with shame and, still, that old, terrible fear.

“Monsieur, I fear I must ignore your protest. I see before me the signs of a crime. This was no mere scuffle. You were attacked, you were wounded; whoever beat you did so with intent, and to attack a magistrate in such a way is a crime I cannot leave unpunished.” 

Valjean shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut as one of Javert's hands traced up his thigh. The thought of Javert aware of what had been done to him was very nearly unbearable. 

“Now, Monsieur. Your report. Please do not leave out even the smallest detail. This is a matter of the law now.”

Javert's ungentle fingers probed at the welt the nettles had left; the skin was still so sensitive that the mere touch forced new tears to his eyes. “Javert, it is nothing, truly,” he said, and concentrated on his shuddering breaths. Was there something familiar to the way Javert loomed over his bent figure? No, no, there could not be, he told himself again. 

“He beat me – in his anger, as you have said, and I am certain it was not with the intention to cause harm. He merely beat me with nettles. A few bruises, the sting, that is all. It will be gone soon.”

Could he send Javert away? Yes, he still had that power. If he could make himself speak the words, he could simply send the man back out to hunt down that imaginary convict. Then one of Javert's fingers pressed against a welt, and he slumped down against the desk with a sound of misery as pain shot through him once more.

Javert's breath was hot and loud against his ear as the fingers lingered on the welt. “Monsieur le Maire, I fear in this case, as you are the victim, I will have to insist on an investigation that follows the letter of the law. Now again from the beginning, Monsieur. He beat you with nettles. How? Why? Did he say anything, demand your money?”

Valjean swallowed his shame as he looked down at his desk, Javert's breathing heavy in his ear. Once more he felt trapped – and perhaps that was all this was: that terrifying sensation of being stuck, reminding him of what had come to pass. 

Javert's hand still rested against his thigh. His breath shuddered; it was nearly unbearable with his skin so sensitive. “I cannot say, Javert, I did not see. A handful of nettles, he just–” He gritted his teeth when Javert's hand pressed down just a touch more, the smallest movement, but enough to bring pain, and a rush of that terrible excitement that had filled him the previous day. 

“He held them and stood behind me. He did not ask for anything, he never spoke a single word. He flogged my thighs. Javert, it is still somewhat painful, I really think I should–” He had to pause for a moment as Javert's hand slowly slid upwards. “Javert!” he said, then made another miserable sound when Javert's other hand, still resting at the small of his back, pressed down more heavily, forced him to bend, Javert's fingers followed the welts with merciless precision, feeling the lines of the inflamed, painful skin the stems had raised – feeling, too, Valjean thought with utter shame, the way Valjean trembled at his touch.

Madeleine, he reminded himself. No, he was Madeleine now, and why would the mayor not tremble, to be attacked in such a way? The mayor was strong, but known to be a gentle, reticent man. No, certainly Javert would not wonder, to find him trembling, and in pain. 

“Go on, Monsieur. I can see the welts. What else happened?”

Valjean shivered. This seemed like a nightmare in truth now – no, certainly this could not be real, certainly he was dreaming! That could not be Javert's hand trailing up his high, making him bite back sounds of pain. That could not be Javert's boots pressing against his legs as the man moved to stand behind him, that could not be...

He faltered in his thoughts when Javert's hand had moved so far up his thigh that he was forced to move the shirt out of the way to see where the welts continued. His blood roared in Valjean's ears. He felt dizzy – was he swaying? He could no longer read the letters on the papers beneath him. There was the sensation of cool air against his swollen balls. Did he – could Javert see now–

He could not think it. He could not imagine Javert's gaze there, it was impossible. No, this had to be a bad dream, he thought again and shivered helplessly. 

“What else did that criminal do?”

Valjean exhaled heavily. “He stepped between my legs, he – Javert!”

This time the cry escaped him when Javert acted on his words, when Javert stepped between his legs – when Javert's boots, smooth, cold leather, pressed against him, forced him to spread his thighs, until his balls hung free and vulnerable beneath him, still so sore and swollen that the thought of Javert's eyes on them alone was enough to make them throb with remembered pain.

“Ah,” Javert said, his voice unreadable. “He continued? Please, Monsieur. I need all details to apprehend that criminal. I fear I must insist on a full report.”

Once more, Valjean tried to cling to the belief that this was but a dream. Perhaps he was running a fever. Yes, and that would explain the heat that made him dizzy. It was too unreal – Monsieur Madeleine, half undressed, bent over his own desk by Inspector Javert, that terrible watchdog. No, it was all a dream, it had to be!

“Monsieur,” Javert said again, insisting. His hand was still on his shirttails, and even in this position, the thought of Javert lifting them further to bare Valjean's scarred back was more terrible still.

“He – his legs forced my legs apart, he – he continued to flog me, he...” He had to swallow before he could force out the words, shivering as more cold sweat slid down his back.

Another pained, surprised cry escaped when Javert's hand touched the bruised sack that held his balls. The touch was light, but even so almost unbearably painful. And still, all Valjean could think of as he shuddered against his desk was that the man had never touched him so yesterday, and how much he had wanted it by the end.

“He flogged you... intimately?” Javert's voice was soft, but even so it slid into his ears, dark and cold and very nearly.. triumphant? Could that be?

No, no, it could not be, he told himself again when Javert lightly fingered his balls. Ah, good God, how was this happening!

“He did,” he said, choking on another sound of pain as Javert's large, rough fingers felt his balls with surprising gentleness. Even so, it was enough to force new tears into his eyes, and he shuddered, moaned a broken sound of pain and clenched his fingers tightly around the desk.

“Forgive me, Monsieur. But I do need to check for injuries. You are still... functional?”

Valjean choked again, his face flushed with such heat that he thought now had come the moment when he would faint, and when he woke all of this could be blamed on the fever that had taken him after his walk.

Javert parted his balls in their sack, gently pressed and squeezed as if to test Valjean's reaction, who could utter nothing but humiliated sounds of pain as he shivered and bore it.

“Monsieur le Maire, did you–”

Javert's voice trailed off tactfully, and Valjean, choking and caught between mortification and agony, knew no other way out but simply to endure, to give Javert a satisfaction he must have longed wanted. Rather that than the other thing, he thought and shuddered. Rather this than the galleys until the end of his life.

“I am not harmed, Javert. I promise. I, ah... I am still... functional.”

He groaned the final word when Javert's fingertips brushed his damp cock as if by accident. Javert released his aching balls for a moment, was silent, and Valjean's embarrassment grew when he imagined him standing there, studying Valjean's spend on his fingers.

Good God, he thought again, another tremor running through him at the thought, and then there was that hand again, and a damp fingertip carefully following a line down the aching, swollen pouch that he was certain must have been one of the welts raised by the nettles.

This time, the touch was light enough that along with the pain, a spark of heat shot up. He made a surprised, uncomfortable sound, tried to move away – but there was only the desk before him, and Javert behind him, and nowhere to go but to tremble in between, his balls cradled in Javert's large hand.

Javert made a thoughtful sound. “And after that?”

Valjean shuddered, remembering the pain and the hot sting, the way it had felt as if his entire body was on fire. He thought of the way he had been spread and utterly exposed, the way he had felt the stranger's eyes on his most intimate places, had fearfully awaited a touch – had at last begged for a touch! And now there was Javert's hand on him. 

Javert's hand released him at last then, moved to his waist again to touch his shirttails, and all thought and shame was gone when panic took hold of him. He spread his legs wide, wider, bent down over the desk until he knew he was as terribly exposed as he had been then, silent and terrified.

There was the sound of a deep breath behind him, and then a long silence. Again he felt cold air against his hole and imagined Javert's eyes lingering there. Cold fear rushed through him, followed by helpless heat. Had he truly escaped such a thing in Toulon only to find himself now bent over his own desk, his trousers at his feet, his hole sore and exposed, and his legs spread wide in invitation? He shuddered. Was escaping Toulon worth this? What difference did it make to suffer humiliation here or in the galleys?

But here, once this was over, he would still be a free man. Here, he would be able to send Javert away afterward, order him to find that poacher, and then return to his own house, hurting and shamed maybe, but still free. Free to do so many good deeds yet.

Javert exhaled heavily. Valjean curled his fingers against the desk, squeezed his eyes shut, his heartbeat loud like thunder in his chest. He spread his legs further, arched his hips a little, flushed with nearly unbearable shame at how utterly exposed he was. He imagined Javert's eyes on his hole again – and then a groan escaped him when Javert's finger, still wet with his own spend, followed one of the two painful, raised welts where the man had flogged the tender skin of his hole with the nettle.

“He flogged you – here?” Javert said. His voice sounded strangely throaty. Valjean bit back a moan. The thin skin around his hole was so sensitive; the man had stroked him there with such mocking gentleness with the nettles while Valjean had trembled and tried not to weep at the sting, and now, now Javert's finger trailed around his hole, and he thought he would choke on the force of his shamed sobs. His thighs trembled from the strain, but still he forced himself to keep them spread wide, to expose himself to Javert, who without a doubt was watching with derisive triumph. How would he give this man orders in the future when he would forever remember Javert fingering his bruised balls, or inspecting his swollen hole?

It had to be a nightmare. The worst part was that Javert's light touch around the aching, sensitive skin of his hole felt good, felt soothing, and he choked back another groan when he realized that Javert was rubbing his own spend into his skin to give him ease from the nettle's sting.

“He did,” Valjean said at last, his voice shaky when Javert's fingers lingered in that intimate place.

Javert made another thoughtful sound. “But Monsieur, are you certain that no further harm was done? I will need all details to apprehend the criminal.”

Valjean shuddered, stared blindly at the letters beneath his cheek. Javert's fingers remained at his entrance, touched him gently enough that after all the torment, it very nearly felt good–

A gasp escaped him when once more, a finger traced one of the welts the man had left. Instinct made him cant his hips up even more, and then he realized that he had begun to harden again, and shivered at the thought that Javert would be able to see.

“He left after that, Javert,” he said at last. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper now. He did not say how much he had wanted the man to remain and finish what he had started. He managed to bite back a similar plea; he did not want Javert, he told himself, but everything still ached, and Javert's touch, at least, offered some ease...

“Did he.” 

He shuddered again when he felt Javert's breath so close to his ear. At least, he thought as he bit his lip to hold back another groan, having Javert crowd him like that meant that Javert could not look at his hole, which was currently twitching helplessly as Javert's finger circled it again and then rested with light, threatening pressure against the tight muscle. 

“I think, Monsieur, your manners forbid you to describe the criminal in his true villainy. But Monsieur le Maire, do not fear. I know that kind of man well; he would not have been content only to flog you. If there was no money to extort from you, Monsieur, I think he would have continued to threaten you in other ways.”

Valjean's mouth parted for a soundless groan as the pressure increased and then, slowly, Javert's finger slid into him, penetrating him with enough ease from the slickness of his own come that there was nearly no pain, just the soreness of his hole from the nettles.

“Monsieur, are you certain that convict has not penetrated you?” Javert's breath was so hot against his ear that Valjean shuddered again. It was a strange sensation to feel Javert's finger inside him – there was no pain, just pressure, and still it felt so terrifyingly intimate that despite his shame and fear, his aching balls throbbed with further heat. 

“I think such a man would have done – this. Tell me, Monsieur, does this feel familiar?” The finger slid deeper inside, and Valjean made another soft sound. He could not even say whether it was from protest or a strange, impossible pleasure, but Javert took it as encouragement and began to move his finger gently within him.

“You look so swollen and sore, Monsieur,” Javert murmured. “You say it was the nettles, but I think that after he penetrated you with one finger, he might have spread you open for him with another – like this.”

This time, Valjean could hear that the moan that escaped him was no protest, but a broken sound of pleasure. He was sore from the nettles' sting, but also unbearably sensitive. When another of Javert's long, cruel fingers, slick with his own spend, slid into his hole carefully, teasing and twisting within as if Javert were indeed trying to figure out by touch alone whether another had touched him so intimately yesterday, he could not help the way his fingers clenched around the table again. His hips rose up of their own volition to make it easier for Javert to penetrate him, and in helpless torment he turned his head to bite into his own arm to muffle the sounds that wanted to spill out of his mouth and give away that shameful secret to Javert.

“Monsieur,” Javert breathed. “You sound like you are in pain. Does this feel familiar? Did he touch you _here_?” And then Javert's fingers twisted and curled within him and pressed, so that pleasure ran hot and shocking up his spine, curled in his sore balls, just as his prick pressed against the desk now, insistent and hard once more.

He could not quite muffle his moan this time, nor, he supposed, could anything veil the way he canted up his hips, pushed back, as if to impale himself further on Javert's fingers. More moans escaped as Javert manipulated something inside him that sent heat straight into his balls that were already so painful and so tender. Still Javert did not relent and began to move his fingers instead, sliding them slowly in and out until Valjean closed his eyes, panting openly now as he pushed back again, asking for more.

“See, Monsieur,” Javert then said. There was a terrible, dark hunger in his voice, but Valjean was so overcome by the pleasure and the unbearable ache of his tortured genitals that he could not even listen. All he could do was pray that unlike the stranger, Javert would not abandon him like this; no, certainly Javert at last would spread him open and fill him and make him moan until the ache and the need was finally gone and he was free of this torment! 

“Yes. It is as I told you. And after that man penetrated you, he would have desired more. Tell me, Monsieur, does this feel familiar?”

A moment's break, at last; Valjean very nearly whined from the loss of the hot pressure within him when those fingers slid out. Instead there was the rustle of clothes. Then, something pressed against his entrance – the blunt end of Javert's prick, wet with Javert's spit or his own excitement maybe, Valjean could not say, only that it felt very large, too large, and suddenly the fear was sobering, and he shivered not from need, tried to turn his head – certainly this farce had already gone too far, certainly Javert had to see reason, he could not–

There was sudden pressure, and Javert slid the wet, blunt head of his prick into him. Valjean could only press his head back down onto the table to gasp as the size of Javert made tears spring up in his eyes. His sensitive hole twitched and clenched around Javert, but oh God, Javert was so large, Javert just stayed within him despite the aching protest of his body. He could hear Javert bite back a groan, then feel him run a finger around the sore, sensitive skin of his hole that was forced to stretch impossibly wide, and Valjean whined again, shivered, could not believe this was happening to him.

Then Javert slowly, slowly pressed his cock deeper inside. It was not the thoughtless rutting Valjean had hoped for the day before, but he was grateful now. Javert was large enough that it was difficult to take him, and just slick enough that he could press inside despite the protests of Valjean's body, and that Valjean felt everything: the drag, the ache, the way Javert went slowly but did not relent until he had buried himself to the root in him and Valjean could only weep helplessly. Javert's prick pressed heavily against the spot inside him that made his sore balls ache with hot pleasure, and after a moment, that alone felt good enough that he groaned and tried to press back against him, to get Javert to rub that spot again.

Javert held himself perfectly still for a moment. There was nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing against his ear, the sensation of his boots pressing against his legs, the heaviness of the large cock within him that had impaled him so that he was helpless in truth. With the desk beneath him, Javert behind him, he was perfectly trapped once more, and Javert's hard prick was using his hole as if that was his right, as if there was nothing wrong at all with the entire obscene tableau: the mayor bent over his own desk, letters crumpled beneath his cheek, trousers at his feet as his inspector of the police pulled out his hard prick to guide it into the mayor's willing hole.

Valjean whimpered. Perhaps that was the man Javert thought he was. Such a thing was not unheard of. Were there not obscene, banned books that had painted similar scenes? And was it not better to have his inspector think him such a man, instead of the escaped convict he was hunting down?

Javert pulled back then, and then did not thrust back inside with force, but slid inside slowly, dragging it out, putting as much pressure onto that spot within him as he could until a long, helpless moan escaped Valjean's lips, and his own prick jerked helplessly against the hard wood of the desk.

“Javert,” he said at last, and it came out as a plea so that he shuddered in fear of this man he had become.

“Inspector Javert. It is Inspector Javert when I am conducting an official investigation,” Javert said, and then pulled back again only to slide inside with a thrust that forced another moan from him.

“Inspector Javert!” Valjean gasped, nearly fearful now, because it felt too good. Javert's prick hit that spot within him with enough force to make him want to writhe and beg and plead for it to never end, while the part of him still capable of rational thought cringed away in shame, and in the fear that Javert knew, that he had to know, that a man like Madeleine would never–

“Say it. Speak up. I cannot hear you.”

Valjean moaned again and tried to hold himself up by his arms. But then another hard, punishing thrust once more stretched his aching hole and hit within him with such precision that his words came out as a garbled whimper, and he collapsed against the desk again, his tear-damp cheek smearing the ink of the letters crushed beneath his head.

“Inspector Javert, please!” He had to force the words out, still panting for breath, then nearly cried out when another hard thrust spread him open once more.

“Please?” The was a dark triumph in Javert's voice, and Valjean wold have shivered with shame to have finally given that man what he wanted. How could he allow Javert to gloat at this intimate victory over him, when Javert had watched with suspicion for so long? And yet, was it not better to have Javert believe that the secrets he had tried to hide were of such an unnatural, obscene nature?

Was it not better to be shamed than to lose his freedom? The convict Javert had once known would never have begged. Would never have wanted this, or enjoyed it.

He swallowed, then moaned again when Javert held still, shocked by the wanton need in his voice as he finally spoke the words. “Please, Inspector, more!”

Javert laughed breathlessly and then forced himself back inside with another thrust that made Valjean's prick press uncomfortably against the hard desk. New sparks of heat ran up his spine, and made him arch and moan with wild abandon. No. It was impossible for Javert to see that convict in him after this shameful display.

“Please!” Valjean now cried out and surrendered himself to the nightmarish need he had never known before. It was too hot; he could not breathe; and still he tried to spread his legs impossibly wider. Anything, he thought wildly, anything at all to make Javert slide in deeper, spread him open and use him, to make Valjean burn within just as the sting of the nettles had made him burn without.

Javert kept a hand on the small of his back to keep him pushed down with easy arrogance as he used him, and now his other hand came to cradle Valjean's balls once more, fingered them as they ached hotly in the abused sack, already taut and drawn up tightly. Calloused fingers rubbed over the burning welts of the nettle stems, and Valjean whined, ashamed to feel Javert's prick twitching deep inside him at the sound, and the answering the ache of his hole for more of this shameful abuse. 

More heat rose, the flames within him fanned by the humiliation of Javert fingering his balls, ignoring his hard cock to instead lightly squeeze his bruised testes as if to mock him for what had been done to him. And why would not Javert find amusement at the thought of the strong, powerful mayor abused and humbled? Was that not all Javert had wanted from when he had first come to Montreuil? Now he had it, and it made Valjean want to weep to have lost to him at last. Still, he could not help but push back for more, needy and shameless as his abused hole ached for more of Javert's heavy cock inside him.

Javert's thrusts grew more powerful. Valjean shuddered at the sound of his balls slapping against his skin. His own balls were drawn up tightly, held in Javert's large hand, squeezed with every thrust so that he did not know whether to moan with the pleasure of Javert's thick prick rubbing inside him just so, or whimper from the rhythmic pain of his tender, bruised balls fingered by Javert's ungentle hand.

Javert's release inside him came as a rush of wet heat. Javert stilled. His fingers clenched so painfully tight around Valjean's balls that he wanted to sob and buck up into the pain, but he could not move with Javert heavy and panting on top of him. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sensation of Javert's hard prick slowly softening within him, calloused fingertips tracing the welts on his aching balls with possessive glee, rubbing with enough pressure that soft sounds of helpless pain escaped him.

Then, at last, Javert slipped out of him. He released his balls, but only to thrust his fingers into his aching hole, hook them around the muscle to pull him open with a grunt. Valjean panted, flushing brightly as he imagined himself utterly open, Javert looking at him like that, stretched and gaping and rubbed a raw pink from the thickness of the cock he had been forced to yield to. His own cock throbbed against the hard wood of the desk as he endured it with gritted teeth, his hair damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He was silently praying as he shivered and waited – praying that Javert would harden again to fuck him once more, or at least use his fingers to manipulate this spot within him again, and laugh at the way it made him beg. 

He was lost, he thought, and his breath fogged the wood of the desk. He was lost, but he was so hard, and now that he knew what it felt like, the ache and the shame of his surrender, and the pressure and the _heat_ of another within him, he wanted it again, ached for it, pitiful and unsated. Instead, all Javert did was hold him open, until Valjean closed his eyes in shame when he could feel the thick, warm fluid of Javert's come slide out of him.

At last Javert pushed his fingers back inside him. Valjean made a helpless, grateful sound, but Javert only laughed when he pulled out with some of the spend that still filled him. It dripped onto the swollen skin of his balls so that he gasped, and them Javert rubbed what remained into the sore, swollen rim of his hole, as if his come were a salve to soothe him.

“And is that what you wanted him to do?” Javert's voice was still thick with lust while Valjean felt his hole twitch and tighten around him, then relax again, more come dripping out of him while he moaned and ached again for something thick and hard to fill him.

“Javert,” he gasped, and Javert's fingers tightened around his aching scrotum again. 

“Inspector Javert, Monsieur.”

Valjean moaned and closed his eyes, trembling helplessly on his own desk while Javert proceeded to rub his own come into the swollen, sensitive skin. He knew he should put an end to this; what if someone came in – but he was still so hard. Again his stretched hole twitched, and another trail of Javert's warm spend escaped.

“Inspector Javert, ah! Please!” He could not even say what he was asking for. Javert's prick. That cruel hand around his own prick, maybe. Maybe just the privacy to rut against his desk in his shame and despair – but of course, Javert did not grant him that.

“Monsieur le Maire,” Javert whispered into his ear. “When I leave, I have to remind you that damaged property in the case of a crime is considered evidence, and as such property of the police for as long as it takes to solve the crime. So please, do not touch any of my evidence. These belong to me, for the duration of my investigation into this matter.”

Valjean made a desperate sound as he tried to withstand the urge to grind himself against his desk. He was panting; he was on fire; his shirt stuck to his skin, soaked through with sweat, and for one second of nearly insane need he thought of taking it off, of giving Javert this final piece of evidence, if only that would mean that he would be touched, that this fever inside him would be quenched and finally sated...

Javert's breathing was heavy. Again his boots brushed Valjean's legs. Again Valjean trembled, then pushed the thought away, concentrating now on that large hand that smelled of sweat and Javert's spend, a heavy, heady musk that made him want to whine desperately and nuzzle it in a shameless plea to be touched, although Javert pressed it to his brow instead. 

“Still so warm. You are flushed; you are unwell. You should return home. Take to your bed, Monsieur, but please remember what I said about touching the evidence of my investigation.”

It ached to breathe; he needed so much, and then Javert bent down further, far enough that his hot breath brushed against his ear when he spoke. “I will take notes about my investigation so far. And, Monsieur, I shall also have to control how quickly the soreness fades. The law must be merciless when a Magistrate is attacked. You will understand, Monsieur le Maire, I am certain. Unless you would rather I take you to the hospital, to have the doctor spread your anus to check the soreness inside, and the stretch?”

His blood throbbed at his brow; he wondered if he would faint. Even now, there was only the smallest trace of humor in the man's voice, despite the terrible words that made him shiver with dread at the picture Javert painted. It was a picture he remembered well from Toulon, where a man might be held down while a doctor forced him open to check for smuggled goods, spreading him until the hole gaped wide, vulnerable and defenseless, fingers rough to make it unpleasant for added humiliation.

He could hear Javert's smile in his voice when the man continued after a pause. “Just as I thought. I will go to the hospital myself, Monsieur, and fetch you some salve to help with the sting of the nettles. It will be no inconvenience if I call on you this evening with the salve?”

Valjean had to swallow several times before he could finally manage to speak. The image of Toulon was still in his mind. What was Javert's little game against that past humiliation? Javert had thought he had found the hated mayor's unnatural weakness. Well then. Let Javert enjoy his triumph. Let him enjoy it several times, over his desk, in his own bed, he did not care. It would be a small price to pay for the privilege of remaining Madeleine. Better to bend to Javert – bend over his desk for Javert – and remain free, instead of becoming Jean Valjean once more, and wearing the green cap in the galleys. 

“I would be grateful for your assistance,” he managed at last, and then carefully righted himself, and drew up his trousers with shaking hands, and even managed to give Javert a mild smile, once more all Magistrate facing an inferior.

Javert looked at him, then idly slapped the whip against his boot once more. Valjean shuddered. Javert smiled slowly. “Yes. You will be, Monsieur.”


End file.
